Mr. Tartar
As I sat on an awkwardly reclined dentist's chair in the kiddie room, a trio plushies watched me from the windowsill. When I had checked in for my dentist's appointment that morning, I had been told that the system accidentally double-booked one of the rooms, so I'd be getting my annual check-up in the children's room instead. This was a big issue for me, not because of the brightly-coloured walls that threatened to burn my retinas, not due to the multitude of disturbing posters of kids showing off their pearly whites, not even due to the tiny chair and its tight armrests that dug at my sides. No, my problem was with those damn plushies. They were the reason I'd avoided the dentist for so many years while I was growing up. I was about eight when it happened. Like any kid, I was scared of going to the dentist. Unlike my peers, however, it wasn't because of all the needles and the sharp instruments. I was terrified of the dentist's puppet, Mr. Tartar. The dentist used him to show children how to brush their teeth and floss properly. He was an eerie-looking stuffed giraffe with a full set of humanoid teeth - something straight out of the uncanny valley. His frozen, dead eyes stared at me as the dentist went about poking and prodding at my gums like they were pincushions. Don't get me started on that grin of his. That large toothy permanent grin made it seem as though he enjoyed the show. Because his neck was too weak to support the weight of his head, it slowly buckled as the appointment progressed, causing him to crane over the edge of the shelf. He seriously looked more like a vulture looming over its prey than an educational puppet. That day was the first day my mom stayed in the reception area. She felt I was old enough to be left in the dentist's office without a hand to hold. The dental assistant brought me into the room and she sat me down in the chair, cheerfully telling me to stay where I was while she tended to another patient. I was left all alone with Mr Tartar, who grinned at me like he always did. We watched each other for a few minutes before I eventually lost interest and turned my attention to the large bay window overlooking the busy boulevard below. Suddenly there was a clattering sound, which was followed by a light thud and a grunt. I saw the giraffe lying on the floor, with its face flat against the cold linoleum tile. "Oh, did you knock Mr Tartar over?" asked the dental assistant as she walked in. She beamed at me and picked up the toy, setting it on the counter. She then slipped her hand into the opening in the back of its head, allowing her to open and close its mouth, which produced the same clattering sound I'd heard before. "Don't worry! I'm not mad! Let's be friends!" she said, using a somewhat masculine voice that didn't quite match the creature's appearance. I shuffled uncomfortably in my seat. I tried to say I didn't knock him over but the assistant didn't seem to be listening. She returned Mr Tartar to his proper spot on the shelf, then proceeded to tilt my chair back. I couldn't move my head anymore, not with her little torture hooks jabbing me and scraping the surface of my teeth. The scraping noises gave me mild goosebumps, but something else quickly turned those molehill-sized lumps into the rocky mountains: I noticed that Mr Tartar had moved. I wasn't entirely sure if I was seeing it right. Maybe I was imagining things. Had he been on the top shelf or the one underneath? She must have put him on the wrong shelf, I figured. Toys can't move. I felt kind of silly about my paranoia. I wasn't a baby anymore: I was brave and strong like a grownup. The assistant finished her preliminary work, then left the room to tell the dentist I was ready for the exam. Just as she disappeared round the corner, I heard the clattering noise again. I looked up to see what was going on. Mr Tartar was now watching me intently while sitting on the guest chair. Now I must confess that I had a very active imagination as a kid. I had several imaginary friends, I liked to think as though my toys were real, and I gave them each distinctive personalities. That being said, they never moved of their own volition. I was always aware that I was the one controlling them. However, this time it was different: I wasn't the one in control. I wanted to cry for my mom but this was the first time that she had left me on my own, and I didn't want to blow it. I heard the dentist's footsteps approaching and turned my head towards the cubicle entrance. In the mere seconds that it took for him to come into view, I felt something brush up against my leg. Mr Tartar had found his way onto the dentist's chair. "I see you and Mr Tartar are getting along well," said the dentist in an amused tone of voice. I resisted the urge to scream, even though I could feel the pressure building up in my throat. The dentist put the puppet on the desk, completely unaware of what was happening. "We'll play with Mr Tartar later, ok? I'm going to start the check-up. Open wide," he instructed. I remember the intense sensation of fear that I felt as I sat in the chair, terrified that the puppet was going to eat me. I didn't want to take my eyes off it for fear that it would move again, but the dentist kept getting in the way. Through the sloshing and slurping of suction devices in my mouth, I could hear teeth chattering whenever he disappeared from sight. My legs distinctively curled inwards, trying to keep away from the chair's edges, as though afraid of a monster that was trying to grab me from the foot of my bed. As soon as the dentist removed his tools from my mouth, I tried to warn him about Mr Tartar, but he immediately stuck a spongy duckbill-shaped apparatus in my mouth and then told me to keep my mouth shut for sixty seconds. I waited as a disgusting strawberry-flavoured foam oozed out and trickled towards my throat. I had to close my eyes and focus so I wouldn't throw up from the hideous sensation invading my mouth. By the time it was done, Mr Tartar had moved closer. The dentist followed my gaze and he smiled. "Hi, I'm Mr Tartar," he said on the puppet's behalf. My face twisted into a disapproving grimace as he gleefully thrust the toy towards my face, just inches away from my nose. I could see its plastic humanoid teeth lined with cracks and imperfections. If I didn't know any better, I would have said that they were real. There was too much detail on each individual tooth for a mass-produced toy. "Aren't you going to say hello?" the dentist asked, wiggling the puppet in front of my face. "Uhmm... hello Mr Tartar," I mumbled. The man grinned and sat him on my lap. "Here's what we're going to do," he said, motioning to the slit at the back of its head. "We're gonna play a game, okay? You'll be Mr Tartar, and I'll be the toothbrush." He reached for an old demo brush with bristles that pointed in every direction. Someone had glued googly eyes and drawn a smile across its back to make it look friendly. In a high-pitched girly voice, the dentist spoke again. "Hi, I'm Mrs Toothbrush! I want to make sure your mouth is in tip-top shape, hyuk hyuk! Open wide, and I'll show you how it's done!" I reluctantly obeyed him, sliding my hand into the puppet and prying its mouth open. One by one, he massaged the teeth and shared a multitude of cleaning techniques that I had mastered years ago. And then he took out the dental floss. I should have known what was going to happen next. As he slipped a hand into Mr Tartar's mouth, I could actually feel the giraffe's head trying to clamp down on it. My tiny head tried as hard as it could to keep his mouth open, but the more I resisted the stronger it pulled. "He's going to bite you!" I warned. The dentist laughed. "Don't be silly, Mr Tartar wouldn't eat me. He only eats little kids." I tensed up, my face twisting in horror. He must have seen the look on shock on my face because he quickly followed it up with "I'm just joking. Mr Tartar wouldn't hurt anyone." As though on cue, Mr Tartar's pearly whites clenched down against his hand with all their might. I remember the scream. I remember the blood. I remember his half-severed thumb hanging from his hand. People flooded the room in a flurry of panic. I tried to say I hadn't done it. I tried to tell them that Mr Tartar had bitten him, but I had been caught with my hand in the cookie jar, so to speak. I could feel their accusatory glares burning with hatred, and then the look of disappointment on my mother's face. My family was banned from that clinic, and I was sent to counselling. I was eventually forced to admit what I had done because no one would ever believe my story. Which brings me back to my most recent appointment, and those three plushies on the shelf: a kangaroo, a crocodile and a dragon. They watched me, and I watched them. I made sure never to take my eyes off them. Until I left the room. As I made my way down the hall, I heard the clattering of teeth like maniacal laughter echoing behind me.